


In Kind

by resolute



Category: War for the Oaks - Emma Bull
Genre: Dark, Fairy Tales, Gen, Jazz Age, Original Character Death(s), Prequel, Winter Solstice, racist language of the era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:47:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resolute/pseuds/resolute
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jazz Age prequel for <em>War for the Oaks</em>. Ruby Kind comes to Saint Paul looking to get away from life in Hibbing. She finds the Wabasha Street Speakeasy, Miss Winter, and Mr. Pook.</p><p>Dear Daisy Ninja Girl,</p><p>I dithered mightily about giving you this present. I dithered. But you said you appreciated that quality of Ms. Bull's works, in that they soar while they cut you. So. It's winter in Minnesota as I write this. It's beautiful. It also kills people.</p><p>(Heart-felt thanks to St. Aurafina, Lilacsigil, and Likeadeuce for assistance, hand-holding, and beta-reading.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Kind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaisyNinjaGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyNinjaGirl/gifts).



_The Gypsy took the side of Mandy the bartender_  
Said, “If I can’t screw the deal, at least I can defend her.”  
But there was no place left to run, and no place left to send her  
She didn’t know that he was on her side. 

 

**December 5th, 1928**

Dear Diary,

I'm being careful, just like I promised. But if you could see Saint Paul you wouldn't go back to Hibbing either.

It's not just the lights, and the streetcars, and the way the stores stay open after dark. It's the people. They are alive, Diary, in a way that no-one is alive in Hibbing. Even in December the city is full of life and energy.

And the _music_. The recordings that Mr. Larsen played for us in class were amazing. But they aren't anything to speak of compared to live jazz.

Hibbing is a shadow. Saint Paul is the real thing.

**December 8th, 1928**

Dear Diary,

I have a job!

I mean, I have a better job. I was working at Aunt Helen's shop, of course. But there I was, making the alterations on some shirts yesterday, when in walks this couple. I'd heard in the songs what a "hot thing" was, and I thought I knew. But now I understand in ways I didn't know before.

The man was dark -- a Negro. I'd never been this close to a Negro before. He was short, and his hair was tightly curled, but not fuzzy like the pictures of Negros in the history books at school. And his nose wasn't flat. Honestly, Diary, if it hadn't been for the color of his skin, I would have thought he was a Jew. He was short, and very trim and neat. Not weak, though. Confident. He wore a purple pinstripe suit and patent leather boots, like those for riding, and his black hat had a purple feather in the band. He smiled at me when he came in, and I know I blushed.

The man was handsome, but the woman … I have never seen anything like her before. I 

… Diary, I've spent a good ten minutes trying to describe her. But I can't. I can't keep it in my mind, what she looked like. Was she blonde? Brunette? Tall? Short? I can't rightly say. All I know is that I would give anything to talk to her again.

Oh, yes, Diary, that's right. She talked to me.

Well, of course they talked to Aunt Helen first. The man did the talking, saying that his cousin was new in town and needed a wardrobe suitable for the climate. She was up from Chicago, I think he said. Which doesn't make a great deal of sense, because everyone tells me that Chicago has winters, too. But Aunt Helen didn't blink an eyelash at the "cousin" remark, even though there's no possibility that these two are blood relations. Helen asked the woman some questions, and then the man discussed payment.

The woman walked to where I was sitting. She smiled at me and admired my needlework. She said that needlework as fine as mine would have been a prize, back where she was from. That a neat girl such as me would be worth stealing for such handcraft. And then she laughed.

When she laughed, the man came over. I don't know why he took her elbow so fast, when all we were doing was sharing a fine joke, a compliment. But he did. "My lady," he growled.

She turned towards him and patted his cheek. "Give the girl my card, Mr. Pook," she said.

He looked at me, still holding the beautiful woman's elbow. "What's your name, girl?" he asked me. His eyes were a very dark brown.

"Ruby," I told him. And then, Diary, I lied. In front of this woman, this lady, and this sharp, handsome man, I didn't want to be Mathilde Ruby Ingeson, recently of Hibbing, Minnesota. I wanted to be new. I wanted to be something fresh and neat and worthy of the city. Worthy of the lady's attention and the man's smile. "Ruby Kind," I told him. Aunt Helen raised a brow from behind the counter but she didn't give me away.

"Ruby Kind," the lady repeated. "Well, Ruby Kind, you find yourself at the Wabasha Street Speakeasy tonight at nine o'clock, and you give them this card." Mr. Pook handed me a card, engraved and rich to the touch. "And we'll take you away from all this, hm?"

Well, Diary, I went.

I'm certain Aunt Helen and Uncle Peter knew I was sneaking out. But what can they do, really? I'm of age, and if they throw me out there are plenty of rooming houses for respectable girls. So I climbed out the window and over the outhouse roof and down into the alley. I caught the trolley on Summit Avenue to downtown, and then the trolley across the river on Wabasha. I got off at the caves. Nearly everyone did.

There was a good deal of pushing to get in at the door. The gentleman standing there was large, and thorough, and he didn't let anyone get away with nonsense. One man, in as sharp a suit as any Aunt Helen might have mended, was turned away for public intoxication.

When I reached the door I handed him the lady's card. The man took it in his enormous, gnarled hand, a hand like the roots of a tree, and gently returned it to me. "You go in," he rumbled. "You go to the coat check and you hand that to Gypsy. He'll set you up." The doorkeep's voice was low enough that I felt it in my bones, the way you feel the train coming long before you see it or even hear the whistle. He bent forward until his forehead nearly touched mine. It was like standing in the shade of an enormous old oak. "Go straight to Gypsy," he said. "Don't stray." I nodded and went in.

I'd never been in a speakeasy, or a tavern, or even a supper club. Just church socials in the basement of Redeemer Lutheran. The Wabasha was in a cave. Or, well, a whole set of caves. It wasn't like the mine. I'd been in the Oliver Mine a few times, to see Daddy or to bring Soren his lunch. But the mine was straight tunnels forever, until it wasn't anymore and guests weren't allowed back there. The Wabasha was more like a series of fairy-tale rooms, one after another unfolding into the depths of the hill. Or, the bluff, I guess it is, actually. Not a hill.

It was warmer than I expected. But it was so full of people and lights, that made sense. Right after the light, though, the thing that struck me was the noise. I felt struck. The noise was half roar, hundreds of people all talking and laughing at once. But the other half was music. Sweet, hot, ripping-fine jazz music. I couldn't see the band but, oh, Diary, I wanted to go find them.

I pushed my way through half of the first room, between men in suits and women in dresses that wished they were silk, when I nearly ran into a man directly blocking my path. It was Mr. Pook. He tilted his head to one side and held out his hand, palm up, waiting for something. For a moment I thought he was asking me to dance. But I remembered in time, and gave him the lady's card. He waved it under his nose. I imagined that he sniffed it. He handed it back to me with a flourish. "Coat check is behind you, my primrose."

I flushed. When I looked back up, Mr. Pook was gone. I turned and wrestled my way back to where I was supposed to be.

Gypsy was, it turned out, a gypsy. He's about my age, a bit older, maybe? Maybe as old as Soren. But nothing like Soren. Small where Soren was tall, dark where Soren was fair. Quick where Soren was deliberate.

Gypsy ran the coat-check. He managed the girls, all of them young and full of curves that came out of their dresses, nearly. He paid them and kept them from fighting over tips, and he kept them alert when they wanted to be sweet-talked by young men. The coat-check was a busy, busy place. Full of people meeting, and talking in the corner, and having conversations whose middle parts made no sense but were very important to the people talking.

I was to sit in the far corner and mend things. It happens that a jazz club is a fine place for getting one's hem ripped, or one's suitcoat torn. I was occupied the whole night, from ten o'clock pm until close. I hemmed a dress, fixed the lining on a vest, replaced more buttons than I could count. I picked the monogram out of a silk handkerchief when Gypsy asked me to, and I knew by the look in his eye to not ask any questions. When he handed it back across the counter I tried to get a glimpse of its owner, but all I could make out was a set of shadows. I thought the person who took the handkerchief wore darkness for a coat. But that was past two in the morning, and I'd been mending by gaslight for hours.

Gypsy handed me my pay when the doors closed. "Here," he said. "And this is a thank you." He gave me a second envelope. "For your discretion."

I accepted it, puzzled. Behind Gypsy the band walked past, heading for the door with their instruments in hand. The bass fiddle was five times bigger than the boy carrying it. "I haven't seen or heard anything to be discreet about," I told Gypsy. 

"And that's the way it will stay," he said.

I took the money. I caught the streetcars back to Aunt Helen's. I crept into my bed, Diary, and got up like nothing had happened. But everything has happened. Everything is happening. To me. At last.

**December 9th, 1928**

Aunt Helen is furious.

The money Mr. Pook gave her for the clothes, it's gone. That's a lot of money. We could have used that money, especially with Christmas coming up so fast.

I told Gypsy what had happened. He said someone had probably robbed us, had followed Mr. Pook and the lady to our shop and taken the money afterwards. I don't think that makes much sense. But Gypsy warned me about asking too many questions, so I held my peace.

The girls in the coat-check were nice about it, though. One said I needed a house-spirit, and to leave out a bowl of milk. Another girl said that, no, it was threes that protect a house from misfortune. That I needed to sprinkle salt on the doorsills three times. Everyone began telling old stories after that. Some of the stories were funny, others were the sort that seem harmless in a lit room and come back to frighten you in the dark.

One story ended with a man crushed on a mill-wheel. The girls laughed. I didn't. They wouldn't have laughed so much if they'd ever seen a mine collapse.

**December 13th, 1928**

Oh, Diary. That went so fast.

Uncle Peter said no girl who worked for bootleggers could live in his house.

Aunt Helen let me go from her shop.

Gypsy had room at the boarding house where some of the other coat-check girls stay.

Now I have a bed in a room I share with Petunia and Willow. Cousins, they said they were. I sleep all morning, like they do, then get up and do my cleaning and shopping, then dinner with the girls, sometimes Gypsy if he stops by. And then work at the Wabasha from seven o'clock until whenever they close. Whenever Mr. Easy decides to close.

The band is George Mason and the Melody Makers. The doorman is Mr. Eichenbaum. He says he's from the old country, but he didn't say which one that meant. The lady I met at Aunt Helen's shop is Miss Winter. Mr. Pook is her … servant? Or maybe bodyguard?

I like the work. I'm tired, a lot. But I like the work. It feels inside, but not a part of things. I'm there, but not involved with everyone's business. I sew, and I watch, and I listen, and I'm safe.

… Never mind me, Diary. I'm tired. I shouldn't write in the morning before I sleep. It makes me sound like I'm touched.

Goodnight. Or good morning.

Goodnight.

**December 15th, 1928**

Miss Winter came to talk to me tonight, Diary.

She walked into the coat-check like she owned it. She doesn't; it's Mr. Easy's club. Miss Winter is a guest in the city, and a guest in the club, and everyone knows it. Though she's the sort of guest no-one ever says no to. She lifted the counter and walked in, and Gypsy made a sort of bow as she went past him.

"Ruby Kind," she said to me, and I loved the way my name sounded in that moment. She reached into her clutch and pulled out a pair of silk stockings. I couldn't help myself, Diary. I glanced at Miss Winter's legs, just for a second, to see if they were bare. She laughed. "My foolish Pook tore these," she said. "Mend them for me, won't you, dear?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The stockings were finer than silk. I don't know what they were made of. Something I'd never held before. Gypsy was at my side. He handed me a spool of thread. "This is what you'll need," he said quietly. I took the thread. I'd never seen its like before.

Miss Winter sat on a high stool next to me. She crossed her bare legs, her dress riding up past anything resembling decency. She removed a cigarette, a holder, and a lighter out of her clutch. "I'll wait," she said, inhaling the smoke as she spoke. 

Gypsy looked like he wanted to say something in protest. But he half-bowed again, and went to the front of the coat-check. I set to work.

The thread was so fine I couldn't see it in my hands. The stockings were so sheer I could only see the tear by the way the edges caught the light. The needle felt clumsy and huge in my hand until Miss Winter handed me a pin from her hat. I used that for a needle and set to work.

The first time I cut my fingers on the thread I nearly screamed. I could see in my mind's eye the horror of my blood staining the fabric. Ruining it. I watched the drops hit the stocking and I felt sick and hot. But the stockings didn't stain. The blood vanished. I stuck my finger in my mouth and sucked it, quickly, glancing up at Miss Winter. Perhaps she hadn't noticed.

Miss Winter was watching me. Her lips were curled. It might have been a smile.

I kept sewing.

The second time I cut my finger, it was on the edge of the fabric. I looked up again, quickly, and met Miss Winter's gaze. But the blood vanished a second time and neither of us spoke.

Mr. Pook arrived just as I pricked my thumb with the hat pin I was using for a needle. He was breathing hard and his shirt was pulled loose, his jacket twisted, his braces swinging free. I watched the blood well up from my thumb. It didn't hurt. The needle was too fine for that. I wiped my thumb on the stocking, not caring what Miss Winter thought. She laughed. Mr. Pook slammed his fists on the counter and snarled. And the stockings were mended.

I blinked. I hadn't thought I was done yet. But there it was. No tear. No rip. Gypsy took the spool of thread from my hands. Miss Winter slid into her stockings with no regard for what I, Gypsy, or Mr. Pook might see. I turned away, my face burning at her shameless behavior.

"Such a blush for me," Miss Winter said. She hopped off the stool, stood, and bent to kiss my cheek. "You do neat work, Ruby Kind," she said. "So I've told the others."

Miss Winter left the coat check. Mr. Pook took one step toward me, then another, then stopped. His face worked, like there were things inside his mouth, words trapped behind his teeth that he dare not let free. He glared at Gypsy. Gypsy dropped to one knee, his head bowed. Mr. Pook laughed. His laugh sounded like dogs snarling and yelping behind the butcher shop, fighting and hurting each other over what was never enough for them all.

"Get up," Mr. Pook said. "You don't bow to the likes of me."

"Tonight I do," Gypsy replied.

Mr. Pook moved so fast I didn't see him do it. But he had Gypsy by the shirt collar, up and slammed against the coat check back wall. "No," Mr. Pook said. His voice was soft now. "Save your obeisance for those who crave it."

"I give honor to anyone who fights for the rest of us," Gypsy said softly. "We all know what you said to the Queen."

"I didn't say enough," Mr. Pook answered. He let Gypsy go. For the first time I wondered how old Gypsy was. Much older than I'd thought at first. "Six days. Six days, and the ceremony will be done."

Mr. Pook left, then. Gypsy told me that the coat check was closed for the rest of the night. He told me to go home.

So I did, Diary.

Here I am.

**December 21, 1928**

Dear Diary,

It was strange, last night. Very strange.

 _Everyone_ came to the coat check. Everyone. Mr. Eichenbaum escorted me in from the door. Gypsy set up a tall stool near the front of the coat check for me to sit on while I worked. Petunia put a flower in my hair, and Willow gave me a little beaded pin for my collar. Mr. Easy stopped to say hello, to Gypsy I thought. But then he gave me a silver dollar! A Christmas present, he said.

But it's not Christmas, yet.

Gypsy told me that tomorrow -- well, today, I suppose, as I write this -- is the winter solstice. The shortest day of the year. Gypsy told me that if the sun doesn't rise on the morning of December 22nd, the world will end in darkness. He said it's the job of every mortal soul to light a candle tonight, the 21st, so that the sun can find its way back to the earth by morning.

There's to be a party at Wabasha Street tonight. The Speakeasy will stay open all night long, until sunrise. There will be music all night, and candles and lights, and dancing. There's to be a barbeque pit out front to feed everyone, and a buffet of cold salads and desserts inside the front hall. Right in front of the coat check! So I'll get to see everyone and everything.

I have a new dress, Diary. Miss Winter left it for me last night. She said I needed something new, something that glittered, to help guide the sun. My new dress is white silk, silt everywhere, with a tight under-dress of yellow silk with gold threads. It looks like a snow-storm moving across the sun. 

I was worried about my new dress, and riding on the trolley. But Mr. Pook said he'll be by around 8:30 to pick me up and escort me to the club. So that will be just fine.

Well, I should go do the washing, and meet Petunia for lunch. I hope the party is a fun one.

***

_December 23rd, the year called nineteen-hundred and twenty-eight_

_Mrs. Ingeson,_

_I return to you this diary of your daughter, Ruby Kind as she was known to me. As you will have heard by the time this reaches you, Ruby met her death bravely. At midnight on December 21st, she attempted to stop a fight between alcohol-intoxicated patrons of the club where she worked. In the confusion, Ruby was wounded by the knife of one of the combatants. The blow was mortal._

_Mrs. Ingeson, I assure you that your daughter did not die in vain. Her blood was spent so that others might live. She was a brilliant light, spilling talent and good cheer around her. Her light lives on in all of us._

_My most profound condolence on your loss._

_Mr. Pook_

**Author's Note:**

> During Prohibition, Saint Paul was a gangster haven. When Chicago got too hot for a mobster, you came north and hid out for a few months. You spent your money, you connected with your community, and you planned your next heist down south.
> 
> The Wabasha Street Caves are real. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wabasha_Street_Caves You can take tours. During Prohibition, a Speakeasy operated in the caves. The caves have also been used by rum-runners and gun-smugglers.
> 
> The lyrics at the top of the story are from "Bright Street Beachhouse Back in Business Blues," by Cats Laughing off of their album _Another Way to Travel_. http://catslaughing.wordpress.com/2008/04/05/another-way-to-travel/ Emma Bull, author of _War for the Oaks_ , played and sang in Cats Laughing. The character of Gypsy is named in honor of that song and that band.
> 
> Hibbing, MN, is located on the Mesabi Iron Range. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hibbing,_Minnesota The Oliver Mining Company took taconite from the ground all through the 1910s and 20s, going to far as to _move the entire town_ in order to get to the taconite ore.
> 
> The band, George Mason and the Melody Makers, is a very oblique homage to the other major influence on this story, Seanan McGuire's October Day novels. It's very slantwise because George Mason is named after Georgia Mason, the protagonist of _Feed_ , a zombie apocalypse novel Seanan wrote under the name of Mira Grant. So oblique as to be invisible, I know, but I did do it on purpose. :)


End file.
